The Parting Gift
by Rachel Van Dyken and Leah Sanders
Published by Astraea Press
www.astraeapress.com
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 RACHEL VAN DYKEN
AND LEAH SANDERS
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
THE PARTING GIFT
Copyright © 2011 RACHEL VAN DYKEN
AND LEAH SANDERS
ISBN 978-1-936852-76-5
Cover Art Designed by Elaina Lee
Edited by Stephanie Taylor and Em Petrova
For my dad, a godly man of integrity, who is always around when we need him.
PROLOGUE
April 1935
David Graham stood over his wife's grave while the minister prayed. Her favorite spring lilies adorned her casket, and she would be laid to rest under the shade of a beautiful maple, just like the tree he had proposed under at that picnic over twenty years ago.
Their lives had revolved around her frail health for years now. David had been consumed every day with concern for Emily. Nothing else mattered in his life. He had worked, yes. Because he had had to in order to keep them afloat. The factory was mindless work though, so it had been easy to continue doing his job without allowing it to consume him.
Emily had been sick for so long, it was almost a relief for her suffering to finally come to an end. Almost. But all the prayers they had offered, begging for her healing, for her life, had been to no avail, and his faith had suffered a slow and agonizing defeat.
The casket descended inch by inch into the ground, and his pain increased exponentially, the ache encompassing him as she slipped further from his reach. Unable to watch, David's gaze moved past the disappearing box to his son's grieving face on the other side of the pit. The loss was tangible in the boy's gray eyes. His grief reflected in the dark cloud that hung there. Eleven was too soon to lose a mother.
And for David, far too soon to lose a wife. The love of his life.
Strange that the sun would shine on such a day. How could the universe not be mourning Emily along with David? But it wasn't. In fact, it seemed happy. Like God was happy.
The realization cut through him, and he squeezed his eyes shut to fight against the tears threatening to spill over his cheeks. It was selfish. Selfish of God to take Emily from him and Blaine. What did God want with her? He didn't need her. They needed her.
Even as the thought churned in his mind, he knew it was wrong – knew it wasn't for him to question God – but the anger burned in him nonetheless. God had allowed her to get sick, just as He had allowed her to suffer so long with the debilitating illness. Then He took her, trying to make it seem like He was doing them a favor.
Life wasn't hard enough living through these tough times, but God had to take away love as well. That's not the kind of God David wanted to follow. The preacher said God was all-powerful; so what was He trying to prove now?
A lump of fury rose in his throat. Why was the preacher taking so long to finish his prayer? A prayer to a God who toyed with the lives and hearts of good men – who took away the mothers of young innocent boys! The anger surged, and that final amen couldn't come soon enough.
David stole another glance at his son. Eyes glistened with sorrow – his frame so frail against the dismal gray. Blaine clenched his small hands into tight fists, and his lips moved almost imperceptibly. David concentrated on them, straining to read what lay there. What would a boy say at his mother's grave? What could he say to bring himself comfort? David desperately wanted to know. He longed to say those magic words himself. To chant something that would bring her back to them. But nothing could fix it – not a chant, not a song, and not a prayer.
The boy would realize that soon enough.
He looked abruptly away as the preacher drew his futile prayer to a close. The casket rested on the bottom of the grave now. David took his shovelful of dirt and tossed it onto the white pine box. Blaine followed suit, his jaw firm, set in the same stubborn way as Emily would have done if she had made up her mind to do something she hated. He could almost hear her voice: Sometimes you have to do things you just don't want to do.
The dirt landed with a spatter, emphasizing the close of this chapter of their lives. She was gone now. Nothing could change that.
David couldn't change it, but he wished he could dull the pain… somehow.
The procession of mourners offering their condolences to the two of them seemed to drag on eternally. If he heard one more God bless you both, he was certain he would lose his temper. If this was God's blessing, David wanted no part in it.
He quelled the urge to lash out with venom as the preacher shook his hand and offered his encouragement. He smiled and nodded and said, "Thank you, Reverend. It was a beautiful service." All perfunctory words, because in the deepest part of his soul, David wanted to scream. He wanted to rip a hole in the cloudless sky with his voice and accuse God. It's not right! It's not fair! What happened to your justice? Where is your love?
But he said none of those things. Instead, he swallowed them, turned to Blaine and mumbled coldly, "Let's go home." And without looking back he started down the gravel path to where his Model A pickup waited.
He climbed into the cab and rested his head on the steering wheel. Exhaling slowly, he lifted his head and glanced out the passenger window.
Blaine hadn't followed him. Instead, the boy had gravitated back to his mother's grave and stood watching the old grave digger as he refilled the six-foot hole with rich dark earth. His small frame dropped to its knees, and even from where David sat he could see his son's shoulders shuddering with forceful sobs; sobs caused by the same heart-shattering grief threatening to suffocate him now.
David wanted to go to him. He wanted to wrap Blaine up in his arms and hold him like he used to when he was a little boy, when things were simple. Before Emily got sick. Hold him and soothe away his tears. But he couldn't. No matter how much he wanted to, his own pain paralyzed him. He slumped back against the glass and closed his eyes.
Waiting for Blaine felt like an eternity. David wanted to get home, out of the mocking cheerful weather, and lock himself in his dark room, away from the rest of the world, so he could grieve properly and maybe sleep off his indignation, if it were possible. Somehow he knew it wouldn't be. Already he could feel the anger making itself at home in his heart, filling the gap left by the loss of his wife.
Out of desperation, David fired up the pickup and laid his fist on the horn. The familiar uh-ooga pierced through the quiet and brought Blaine back to his feet as if the weight of his grief was fighting his every effort to rise. David watched him turn and shuffle blindly toward the truck. Despair was evident in the boy's sagging shoulders, and his head hung low. Again, David's heart went out to his son, but he said nothing as the boy pulled the heavy door open and crawled into the cab beside him. The words weren't there, and silence seemed the only respectful choice.
The truck jolted forward as he shifted it into gear and rumbled down the road toward home, unutterable anguish hanging in the stifling hot air between them.
The long drive home in silence left time for the memories to stream through David's mind. He remembered the first day he drove home in the brand new Model A. He had used the inheritance from his grandfather to purchase the pickup, a gift for their fourteenth anniversary. He had sounded the horn as he pulled up in front of their little house, bringing Emily running out to find him waving at her from the shiny green cab. She had laughed and clapped her hands with joy at his suggestion to go for a ride.
The sparkle in her green eyes and her wavy golden hair was as bright and true as the day they'd met. He had known even in that first moment that she was meant for him. Her crystal laugh and carefree love for life had drawn him immediately in and his bachelor's resolve evaporated into thin air.
David had proposed to her on a warm fall day under a tall maple whose leaves had only begun to change. Emily had cried tears of happiness and had thrown her arms around his neck. The following spring they were married in the small country church Emily's father had pastored her entire life. She carried a bouquet of her favorite spring lilies and her green eyes danced with the bliss they shared. He could still hear her whispering I love you into his ear as he lifted her into the rented carriage for their wedding trip.
He could still feel her warm tears on his neck when they lost their first child – a baby girl, little Naomi Grace; she had lived only two days.
He could still see her worried gaze when he brought her his conscription notice in trembling hands. "I'll wait for you, Davey," she had whispered at the train station and had stood waving on the platform until she was a tiny dot to him as the train rattled down the tracks toward New York and the ships that would take him to the war across the Atlantic. Those cursed Europeans and their irreconcilable conflicts had stolen two years with his beloved Emily.
He could still hear her laughter as she played with newborn Blaine. After five years of trying, he had come along to fill their hearts with joy unspeakable. How Emily had loved him.
Now here he was slumped against the door, the light gone. God, you've let us down, David thought, and the fury tightened in his chest again, taking a deep root there.
The truck squealed unhappily as it turned down the street toward the little house. David brought it grumbling to a stop in front of the fenced yard and killed the engine. He released a heavy sigh and looked at the forlorn house. Not a home anymore.
"Come on then," he muttered. David stepped out of the truck and slammed the heavy door. Then he strode to the passenger side and opened the door for his son. Blaine didn't move right away. He seemed so small and frail there all alone in the truck. Instinctively, David reached in and lifted him into his arms then carried the boy to the house, up the narrow stairwell and into his dark room.
He laid his son on the bed and sat beside him for a moment, stroking his golden hair. Something needed to be said. Some words to comfort him, to let him know his father understood his pain, but none came to mind. When David opened his mouth to speak, the words caught dry in his throat, choking him. He coughed and stood to leave.
As he walked to the door, the one thing he could manage to say was, "Get a good rest, son. School tomorrow." Then he turned and stalked back down the stairs cursing himself.
David couldn't even convince himself they were going to be okay. How was he going to convince his eleven-year-old son?
****
Detroit, June 1940
"Blaine!" David pounded on the door. "Come on, Blaine! You'll be late for school!"
There was silence on the other side of the door. A frigid silence, like the kind that haunted David at night when he was alone. A sudden fear shot through him, and he grasped the knob and forced the door open. "Blaine?" he pleaded with his heart in his throat. The lump under the quilt shifted slightly. David exhaled in relief at first, but his confrontation with the fear catapulted him into a rage.
"Boy! If your dogs don't hit the kitchen floor in one minute, I'm going to take the belt to you!"
A groan floated out in answer. David grabbed all the bedding and his son together in one fell swoop and delivered him blankets and all to the cold wood floor.
"Dad! Come on! I'm joed. Let a fella sleep, would ya?"
"No, sir! School!"
"School!" he flared, jumping to his feet. "School! Are you kidding me? Nobody cares about school, Dad! Most of the guys my age have left to work at the plant. The only people left are the dames and the brains."
"I don't care about what anybody else does. You ain't quitting school! Now get going. You're wasting time, and I'm not listening to your trash! You're making us both late!" The situation was teetering off the edge of control. If he didn't defuse, this would be another blow out. Something he had noticed was occurring more often the last few weeks. "Let's just calm down…"
But his efforts were already too late.
A hot fire leaped into Blaine's steel gray eyes, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his neck with thick emotion, like he was swallowing back his fury. His hands were balled into tight fists, the knuckles whitening before David's eyes.
"No!" Blaine exploded. "No, Dad! I'm done calming down! You don't ever listen to me! And now I don't need you to tell me what to do either. I've been taking care of myself for five years! Ever since Mom died.
"You do remember Mom, don't you? The woman you buried one day and forgot about the next? You didn't give two cents then; you don't give two cents now… other than whether or not I'm late for school! Hang school! – And hang you!" With that he grabbed his blue jeans off the edge of the bed and stalked out of his room slamming the door. On the other side of the door, he could hear Blaine hopping around on one leg, struggling to pull on his blue jeans. He heard the clomp of his boots and the screen door slam. David was left alone in the sudden quiet.
Quiet. But not peaceful.
His heart wrenched inside him, and he slumped to the floor under the weight of his anguish. Oh, Emily. Emily, if you were here… His heart wept. But she wasn't, and he had made a mess of this by himself. The old indignation threatened to swallow him again. See, God? You don't do nothing but take from me!
It was the last time he saw his son.
When David arrived home that night, Blaine was gone, and the note said, "Now you don't have to worry about me being late to school."
CHAPTER ONE
Boston, November 1950
"Logan Tower, flight one-seven-November-two-Bravo requesting permission to land."
"This is Logan Tower, Captain. You are clear to land."
Captain Blaine Graham banked to the left and brought the plane around into position to bring her safely onto the landing strip. The sun filtered over the eastern horizon, reflecting off the water surrounding most of the Logan International Airport.
It was good to be home again. Blaine had been out on a week long flight schedule and this last flight was an all-nighter. He did love to fly, but after a week of it, he was ready for a rest. Of course, as a pilot, he was "home" so seldom, he used the term loosely. Home was wherever he was sleeping that night. Today it happened to be Boston.
Within minutes, the plane pulled up to the terminal and Blaine cut the engines. As the passengers disembarked, he and his co-pilot went through the terminating protocol quickly.
"Long night. Be glad to get home to the wife," his co-pilot muttered behind a yawn. Blaine stretched his arms over his head then stood, still stooped over a bit, because his full six-foot-three frame didn't quite fit in the cramped plane.
"I'll just be glad to get back to my own bed." The exhaustion started to set in as he unrolled his white shirt sleeves and buttoned them, then lifted his blazer from its hook and slipped it on. Grabbing his overnight case, he turned again to the other man. "Sounds like it's empty out there. You ready?"
"Just let me grab my cap."
A light knock on the cockpit door told them the cabin was clear. Blaine ducked out through the little door and came face to face with the stewardess. She smiled sweetly, looking straight into his gray eyes. "It was a smooth flight, Captain."
"Thank you." She was still gazing at him, as if she expected him to say something more. Nothing was coming to mind. Not that he was much of one for talking, but exhaustion made small talk next to impossible for him, and conversing with women had never been one of his strong suits.
Behind him, the co-pilot seemed to understand his loss for words. "Yeah, 'Old Cool Hand' we call him. Smoothest pilot I've ever flown with." He slapped Blaine on the back and a broad grin swept across his face.
Blaine breathed a sigh of relief and laughed softly with him.
"Y'all ready?" the dark-haired man gestured toward the hatch and nodded to the stewardess. "After you, ma'am."
A brief glimpse of disappointment seemed to flash in her brown eyes, but she hid it well behind her polite smile and led the way down the stairs to the ground.
"Thanks, man," Blaine whispered.
"A brother in need, son," drawled the co-pilot. "I think she's got a torch for you."
"You think so?" He glanced at her walking a few steps ahead of him. She was a pretty girl. Particularly from this angle.
His companion poked him in the ribs and chuckled. "Oughta ask her dancin'."
The girl inclined her head slightly, as if she had heard the comment. Blaine looked at the ground in embarrassment, though the early morning dusk offered adequate cover to hide him from her view. "Shhh," he warned, but her pace seemed to slacken, perhaps in hope Blaine would take his co-pilot's advice. He caught up to her without meaning too, and she fell into step beside him.
Blaine's mind whirred frantically. He had spent so little time with women; any proximity to one flustered him. His mother had died when he was eleven. With the onset of puberty, the lack of a female influence had made him awkward and shy with the girls, and his old man had never been any help in any capacity, so he relied on his buddies. Their often misguided suggestions had a tendency to make matters worse.
The silence seemed to suck the moisture from his mouth. Finally she broke in, "Are you stationed in Boston, Captain?"
His voice caught somewhere in his throat, so he coughed gently to clear its way. "Yes." She glanced at him again, expectantly. Blaine hated this part of conversation. If she would just keep asking him questions, he would have something say; otherwise, his mind was a blank.
"Okay," whispered the saving grace from his other side. "I know it's been a long night, but this is ridiculous." Blaine didn't know his co-pilot very well. It was only the second time they had flown together, but he had an easy-going confidence with the dames Blaine wished he had.
"Old Cool Hand here is a smooth fly-boy, but he ain't so cool with the ladies, Miss Bell," the man chimed. "I reckon if he could talk, he'd say 'Miss Bell, I'd sure love to take you dancin' some time.'"
The stewardess laughed and played along. "And then I'd say, 'Why, Captain Graham, I'd be delighted.'" There was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes as she cast a sidelong glance back to Blaine.
"Well, I'd say that settles the matter. Are you game, Sir?" His companion nudged his arm questioningly.
Blaine shrugged and offered an uncertain, awkward smile to Miss Bell. "Sure. I'd like that."
"You'll have to excuse him, Miss Bell. He's a million laughs in the cockpit, but 'comes downright taciturn whenever he leaves the safety of the flight deck."
She giggled again and laid a petite hand on Blaine's bicep. "Don't worry, Captain. I'm a wonderful dancer, and I promise I don't bite."
Her lingering touch did little to settle the knots in his churning stomach, and already he was regretting the concession to take her out.
"So all's settled but the shoutin'. When and where, Miss Bell?" Fate seemed to be in the hands of the co-pilot now, and his current was sweeping away Blaine's sense of control. He started to interject, but his two companions stepped closer together to work out the details of his "date." If there were a guarantee he wouldn't have to see either of them again, he would duck out now and forget the whole thing.
****
When the taxi pulled up in front of the brownstone boarding house, it was close to eight o'clock in the morning. Blaine's exhaustion was bone deep, and his movements were slow and deliberate as he slung his overnight bag across his shoulders and dragged himself up the steps to the front door. He rang the buzzer, and waited for the land-lady, Mrs. Callahan, to let him in.
The old Irish woman broke into a wide grin when she saw him standing in the frigid morning, his breath a cloud of steam against the November chill. "Ah, it's yerself, is it, Captain Graham? We've been missin' ye 'round here." He felt like he would drop where he stood and must've appeared as such. "Well, come in, come in! Can't have ye fallin' asleep on the stoop now, can we?"
Mrs. Callahan was a warm, maternal woman; her fiery red hair dusted with a smattering of gray was always pulled up in a loose bun in the back of her head. She ushered him in the house and guided him to his room on the second floor.
"To bed with ye, Captain Graham, and never fear, I'll wake ye fer yer supper."
"Thank you, Mrs. Callahan." He offered her a weary smile and shuffled into his room.
"Ah, yer a good lad, Blaine Graham." She pulled the door closed behind him, leaving him alone in the quiet.
Her maternal affection always warmed him from the inside out, a balm which soothed his aching soul – the one thing he'd been missing since his own mother's death.
Slowly, he hung up his uniform in the closet and changed into a clean pair of pajamas from the bureau. Thankfully, Mrs. Callahan had filled the pitcher with fresh water in anticipation of his arrival. He poured some into the basin and scooped up a handful to wash his face.
And then he fell into bed. His bed. He sank deep into the feather mattress and pulled the patchwork quilt up over his head, darkening the world around him. Sweet sleep possessed him, to which Blaine was happy to surrender.
****
A steady rhythmic rapping on the old oak door pried Blaine out of a deep sleep. Groaning, he rolled onto his back and pushed the quilt away from his face. The broad daylight streaming through the window blinded him temporarily. He threw back the covers and sat up on the edge of the bed. Rubbing the haze from his eyes with his fists, he called out, "Yes, Mrs. Callahan, I'm up… I'm up."
From behind the heavy wood door, he could hear Mrs. Callahan's thick Irish brogue, "I drew ye a bath, Captain Graham. Th' water's coolin'." Almost as an afterthought, she added, "You might want to hop to it, Laddie, before Old Mr. Hanigan jumps yer claim."
Blaine chuckled. "Yes, ma'am! Just you tell that old codger to mind himself."
Her throaty laughed echoed back to him. "He'll mind himself, or he'll be talkin' out t'other side of his face. Supper will be in half an hour."
From farther down the hall, Blaine could hear the faint sound of Mr. Hanigan's stern protest, "Madam, I'll thank ye t' leave me out of it."
Mrs. Callahan's laugh echoed through the house as she tromped back down the stairs.
He had to smile as he stood and grabbed his robe. Their playful adversarial banter was part of what made this place home. It was what Blaine imagined a happy family sounded like, a whole family… one that had settled into a comfortable co-existence. And the boarding house residents were his family. At any rate, the closest thing he'd had to it in over fifteen years.
"I always miss your cooking when I'm flying, Mrs. Callahan." Blaine finished off his third helping of the tender roasted beef and potatoes and pushed back from the table with a contented sigh.
"Thank'ee, lad. Yer appetite pleases me considerable. Th'rest of these blokes don't know how t' compliment the cook. They eat like birds. Old crotchety birds." A chorus of protests mixed with belated attempts to favor her cooking rose from the three older men at the table, but Mrs. Callahan just shook her head and replied, "No, no. Yer too late."
"It's getting close to seven. I'll be going out tonight," Blaine stated with a glance at the dining room clock, trying to sound nonchalant.
"Oh?" He could see the gears turning behind her twinkling emerald eyes. The rarity of the event wasn't lost on her, and she was a quick study. "What might ye be about?"
"I'm going dancing."
"I see. Um… and will there be a young lady joining ye this evenin', Mr. Graham?" She glanced at Mr. Hanigan, who winked knowingly and chuckled under his breath.
The suggestion brought a warm blush creeping across Blaine's face in response. "Yes," he murmured. "Miss Bell, a stewardess on the flight last night. She'll be joining me."
"Well, then!" Mrs. Callahan clapped her hands together. "Ye best be getting 'round, says I!" Her delight took him by surprise, but it seemed contagious. Mr. Hanigan grinned and slapped Blaine on the back in congratulations, while the other two boarders nodded their whole-hearted approval.
Blaine shrugged and rose from his chair. "I'll just go grab my wallet." As he strode down the hall and up the stairs to his room, his stomach churned uneasily. It had been a long time since he'd last been out with a woman. How long? Four? Five years? It had been in Italy if he remembered right. Celebrating V-E Day. Everyone was carousing in the streets then – there was a good chance it didn't actually count.
With anxiety surging through him, he scoured his room for his wallet, becoming increasingly frazzled in the search. It was just like him to misplace the stupid thing in this situation.
"Captain Graham?" Mrs. Callahan hollered up the stairwell. "Captain Graham?"
Hearing the tangible fear in her voice sent a chill down his spine, and he sped down the stairs. "What is it? What's wrong, Mrs. Callahan?" Her eyes were bugging wide with apprehension.
"There's a telegram for ye."
Telegrams never carried good news. The war years were too recent, and Mrs. Callahan told him she had held her breath every time the buzzer rang in those days, waiting for the telegram which would finally confirm her worst fears of the fate of her only son. That telegram was delivered six years ago, but the residual effects of that one delivery haunted her still.
She stood beside the courier with her hands clasped together over her mouth. Her eyes glistened with the threatening tears and burned with fear into Blaine's face.
He approached the uniformed man and took the envelope from his outstretched hand. The man's face was emotionless, revealing nothing, but the intensity of Mrs. Callahan's concern transferred to Blaine. He ran his free hand through his sandy blond hair and stared at the envelope in his trembling hand.
"I'm sure it's nothing," Mr. Hanigan intoned.
"Just open it, lad," encouraged another boarder, Mr. Casey.
Blaine glanced from one face to another, then peeled the flap open and read the message silently. When he looked up again, all their eyes were glued to him for his reaction. An uncertain grin spread across his face as he folded the telegram and put it in his pocket. "Mr. Hanigan is right. It's nothing. Nothing to be concerned about, Mrs. Callahan." He cleared his throat and averted his eyes to the old grandfather clock. "Well, I need to be going… How do I look?"
Outside on the front steps, he pulled the paper out of his pocket again and tried to absorb the words printed there.
His father was dying. He wanted him to come home.
Chapter Two
Young Mara Crawford's hands shook as she checked the mailbox for the second time that day.
Nothing.
It shouldn't surprise her, yet every day she still held hope that David's son would respond to her telegram. It had only been a few days. Had he even received it? Should she send another?
The wind picked up, blowing her dark hair into her face. Mara closed the mailbox and sighed. Her job description did not include telling a dying man his son wasn't coming home, yet as the snow and gravel crunched beneath her feet, she accepted the fact that the prodigal may never return. God never promised life would be easy or that happy endings would always be reality.
The trees lining the driveway back to the house swayed. Orange and yellow leaves scattered in front of her. Suddenly, her chest was heavy with dread. How does one deliver news such as she carried?
Months ago she would most likely have run back into the house and thrown this bit of information in David's face.
Upon their introduction he had been an angry, belligerent and bitter man wanting help from no one. On several occasions he had thrown his food straight at Mara's head, amidst a torrent of curses which would make a sailor blush.
With the realization that his bitterness was rooted far deeper than she could handle on her own, Mara began praying for him. The result was a change in the way she interacted with him.
Each time he had one of his fits, Mara would move to his bedside, pat his hand, and say, "It's going to be just fine, Mr. Graham. I'm here."
Gradually, he began to respond to her gentleness.
She tried to conjure up a smile as she approached the front door. How many times had she done this same thing over the past several days? And old Mr. Graham, tender-hearted Mr. Graham, would say, "Did you find anything?" She would shake her head no, and the light in his eyes would dim.
He said his son would never forgive him.
Mara wasn't willing to give up. Everyone deserved forgiveness.
Taking a soothing breath, she walked into the large two-story house and began ascending the stairs like she had so many times before.
When she first came to David she had been told he had six months to live at the most. After the first month she was ready to quit. By the time the second month was almost through, David broke at last – A relief, considering she was getting ready to start slipping sleeping aids into his orange juice.
"Mara?" he had said.
She had walked to his side and pressed her palm to his forehead. "Yes, Mr. Graham? Are you feeling all right?"
A single tear ran down his cheek. Shaking his head, he let out a long string of coughs, then sighed, "You're just like her."
"Who?" Mara asked as she adjusted his blankets.
"Emily. My wife. She died when my—" he paused and looked out the window. "I have a son, you know."
And that was when David told her of his life. The mistakes he had made. The life he had led – the anger and bitterness which had consumed him and kept him from being a father to his own grieving son. He told her of the way he had turned his back on God, and how all of these things had resulted in the loss of his son.
"Do you know what I think, Mr. Graham?"
He swallowed and shook his head.
"Bitterness has done more damage than your illness. I'm more worried about your heart."
"Me too, Mara. Me too." And with that David broke down into gut-wrenching sobs. Hours later, Mara opened her Bible and prayed with him. They'd been close ever since.
Approaching David's door now, Mara prayed for strength then promptly pasted a bright smile onto her face. "And how's my favorite patient today?"
"Grumpy," David answered, crossing his arms.
"Grumpy?" Mara laughed. "And why are you grumpy?"
"My nurse was gone for over an hour, and I didn't have anyone to read to me." His eyes twinkled.
"And you can't pick up a book and read yourself?"
"I like your voice better."
"You old Casanova," Mara huffed, sitting on the edge of his bed. The man had enough charisma to charm anyone regardless of age, though most of the time it had to do with sneaking extra pie away from the kitchen or trying to talk her out of giving him more nasty-tasting medicine. She took his hand and squeezed.
"Mr. Graham, I..." Her eyes searched his. Maybe he would understand without her saying the words. She prayed for God to intervene.
"Say, do you want to play gin rummy?" David reached for the cards as Mara mouthed a thank you, God into the air.
They played for an hour before Mara informed David it was time for his nap.
"I'm not a child you know." He yawned. "And I'll have you know, I'm not even tired."
Mara raised a quizzical brow and crossed her arms.
"Oh, fine… don't get your britches in a bunch."
She walked to the door and turned down the light. "I'll wake you for supper. Try to rest for a while okay?"
"Rest. Hmph. I'll rest when I'm dead."
Rolling her eyes, Mara shut the door behind her.
****
David watched as the door clicked shut. The room felt heavier without her bubbly presence. Groaning, he turned on his side to get more comfortable. Light crept through the green drapes onto his bed. Everything around him had a way of reminding him of his sickness—of the time lost. It was near impossible for him to go an hour without feeling guilty over what happened so long ago.
Would he have even sent a letter to Blaine had it not been for Mara? The new, changed man inside of him said otherwise; the old bitterness seemed to have been from another lifetime. Yet it was still there. He could still feel his heart skip a beat just like the day when Blaine left him.
For years he had hoped Blaine would return to him. As time passed, his bitterness and anger increased, until he reached the point of not wanting to acknowledge Blaine's existence any longer. It was too painful to remember. The same way it had always been too painful to remember Emily.
Mara had helped him work through his mourning. He had never truly mourned the loss of his wife, but blamed God for taking her. Nor had he ever dealt with the grief of losing a son soon afterwards. He had been walking in a thick fog of depression for years, until Mara.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he continued to watch the dust particles float through the air. Soon, it would be Christmas, and he would have a mere three months left. Three months to fix what happened so long ago. Odd how time restraints had a way of making one think about time wasted. Every breath, every day, every moment was precious now. He smiled, even a bite of pie was enough to make him grin for weeks. He had taken life for granted for so long, and now he wanted to make up for it.
If Blaine would let him – but it all depended on Blaine receiving his telegram. Would Blaine even respond? Or care to visit? The hours spent praying over that very thing sometimes kept David awake at night.
It was an old man's dying wish. To see his son one last time. To ask for forgiveness—to save him from a similar fate.
Bitterness and anger have a way of destroying a man's soul. Man was not meant to walk around with burdens only almighty God can take away. As the Good Book said, "The battle belongs to the Lord." David just hoped Blaine wasn't spending his days fighting his own inner battles. Did he even know about the saving grace of God? Was he aware of Christ's forgiveness and love? Did he remember what his mama had taught him so long ago about the love of God?
Regretfully, David knew the boy hadn't heard any of it from him.
Closing his eyes, David sent up a quick prayer for God's provision. "Bring him home, Lord. Bring him home."
Chapter Three
"Is something bothering you, Captain Graham?" Miss Bell inquired politely. The date was more miserable than he had anticipated. She was clearly disappointed that Blaine was even less talkative than he had been after the flight earlier that morning. And it was a true assessment.
The news about his estranged father had knocked him even deeper into silent self-reflection, and he wasn't very good company even on the best of days.
"You've hardly said two words to me the whole evening." Her dark brown eyes scoured his face for signs of life. "I mean, I knew you weren't much of a talker, but I thought maybe, in a different setting…"
"I'm sorry, Miss Bell. I know I'm not a lively escort." He couldn't bring himself to meet her gaze. "I… I…" he stammered. He wanted to talk to her, to tell her about the telegram, about his father, his life story even, but he couldn't. She was a perfect stranger, and one who seemed to have never experienced true grief at that. She would never understand his unique brand of tragedy.
Miss Bell touched his arm reassuringly. "It's all right. I'm still tired from last night's flight anyway. Perhaps you should just take me home, and we can do this another time."
A rush of relief mixed with regret surged through him. Blaine let out a large sigh and nodded. "Certainly. I'll get your coat."
Since his "date" was a bust, Blaine decided to visit the corner pub for a stiff drink. The usual crowd was already there. Ordinarily, he would have joined a few of the boys he knew over at the corner booth, but tonight he had too much on his mind.
So, his father was dying. Why should he care? What could the old man possibly want from him now after all these years?
It had been ten years, but after all the living he had done, it seemed more like a lifetime ago. That last fight replayed in his mind; all the old feelings were still there, firmly intact with the memory. Maybe it wasn't a lifetime ago, after all. The anger bubbled again below the surface as Blaine sat down at the bar.
"Whiskey."
The bartender raised an eyebrow. He knew Blaine well enough to notice the strangeness of the order. The hard stuff wasn't his usual. When he seemed about to question the order, Blaine cut him off, "Never mind the mommy lecture, Duke. Whiskey. Now."
Duke shrugged and slid the shot glass across the counter to his customer. Slapping a bill on the counter, Blaine added, "And keep 'em coming." The bartender hesitated a moment, scrutinizing the man before him, and then with resignation, he set the bottle next to Blaine's hand and turned away.
An ironic smirk played at Blaine's lips as he regarded the glass in his hand. The encroaching rage threatened to take over his mind. The whiskey probably wouldn't help, but he was willing to try it. It had been awhile since he'd been good and drunk.
Cocking his head back, he drained the shot in one gulp, then reached for the bottle and turned to survey the pub. Leaning back on the bar, he poured another glass and downed that one just as quickly. He repeated the sequence two more times. The warmth of the liquor spread through him like fire.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a table of his friends, so he sauntered toward them with his half-empty bottle in tow. "Hey, fellas," he greeted them with an easy grin.
"Cool Hand! We were wonderin' when you'd show up!" A red-headed dock worker stood and slapped him on the back.
"Yeah, where were ya been? Haven't seen you in ages," chimed in the man's dark-skinned companion.
"Flying. Had a week's trip. Just got back this morning."
The tinkle of the bell caught Blaine's attention and he turned groggily to look at the door. A mesmerizing lull seemed to be settling in his brain. A short, wiry man stepped through the front door with a gorgeous blonde on his arm. The man wore a broad smile, like he'd just won big at the track. He gingerly helped the woman out of her coat and turned to hang it on the wall hook.
The woman with him stepped out of his way, moving under a hanging lantern, illuminating her fully in the dim room. Blaine squinted through his rapidly descending haze. She seemed vaguely familiar.
Beside him the red-headed man taunted the others, "Hey, fellas, look who's back in town!"
"Yeah, boys! Isn't that Miss Bell?" another added. The name struck a chord in Blaine's mind, and he did a double-take at the woman who had just come in.
"I tell you what, I'd like to ring her bell," oozed the dark Italian on the other side of the table. The other men chuckled and agreed, if their gawking glances were any indicator.
"What did you say her name was?" Blaine slurred, pouring another glass from his nearly empty bottle.
"Bell. She's been in a few times. Always a different guy with her." All eyes were hungrily tracing her movements now as she followed her escort to the dance floor.
Blaine threw back another shot of whiskey and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It dawned on him whom he was watching. The men beside him groaned as if in pain.
"Doesn't she move good, lads?" the red-headed Patrick sighed.
"Bell…" Blaine repeated. "Hold on a minute." The realization broke through like lightning. She had asked him to take her home. She had said they would go dancing another time. And here she was not one hour later dancing with somebody else. With somebody else – like she hadn't been out with him at all.
"What's the matter, Cool? You look a little orange," the dark-skinned Tony mocked. "You know her or something?"
"Yes." He slammed his glass down on the table and turned back to the dance floor. The walls seemed to spin around him, but he trudged unsteadily toward the dancing couple anyway.
"I'd like to cut in," he slurred with a tap on the man's shoulder.
Without so much as a glance, the man replied, "Get lost, creep." His back was to Blaine, but Miss Bell could see him well enough. Her gaze locked on his eyes. They must have reflected dark fury, because hers were full of alarm.
Rather than draw him back to reality, her fear inflamed him. He was not so easy to forget. Even if he had been tacit earlier, she should still be home pining over the tragic loss. And whom did she choose to help her recover from her broken heart? This pitiful excuse for a replacement.